


one thing to another (to tomorrow, to the rain)

by ThisUsernameTaken



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Relationship, Rain, i guess??, the world may never know, titles are-- really hard, will i ever write smth past 1k again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-31 09:15:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18588247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisUsernameTaken/pseuds/ThisUsernameTaken
Summary: The street opposite him was empty, abandoned by the sensible, occupied only by those otherwise impaired. It’s not like hemeantto be-- here. Wherever here was. Usually his sense of direction wasexcellent, what the hell.Across the street, a newspaper on a bench was growing sodden. And a voice, wry and utterly disinterested, a smirk in the cant of its head. And a voice, an imagined reality to an echo of the past, to his right, just above.Hey. Wanna make a run for it?





	one thing to another (to tomorrow, to the rain)

Getting caught in the rain was one thing. Hell, he was Spiderman. He’d stick it out. Huddle under an awning or something. Which, conveniently, was what he was doing. 

  


Was what  _ Peter Parker  _ was doing, hood dripping rain into his eyes, backpack straps clutched tightly over his shoulders, drawn to his chest. His suit was stuffed into the bottom, weighed down by books he couldn’t risk getting wet, a suit he couldn’t risk to change into. 

  


Getting caught in the rain was one thing. Civilian, lost, a dead cellphone and no umbrella to boot was another. Another  _ what _ ? Thing, something, Parker luck, series of unfortunate events, whatever. Lightning whipped the sky, and he yelped, pressing back against the locked doors of a cafe. Sunday. Typical. 

  


The street opposite him was empty, abandoned by the sensible, occupied only by those otherwise impaired. It’s not like he  _ meant  _ to be-- here. Wherever here was. Usually his sense of direction was  _ excellent _ , what the hell. Across the street, a newspaper on a bench was growing sodden. And a voice, wry and utterly disinterested, a smirk in the cant of its head. And a voice, an imagined reality to an echo of the past, to his right, just above.  _ Hey. Wanna make a run for it? _

  


A flash-- same backpack straps, same converse, dipped out for a drop and returning soaked. They were less faded, then, scuffed as ever, laces not yet split. Same converse, same backpack, voice breaking on the highs, into lows that only had him coughing. Same raincloud skies, but that time, they were faced together. 

  


And she’d nudged him, sharp elbows even through denim, curls frizzing in the rain.  _ Hey _ , she’d said, laced up boots kicked back against the brick, hands in her pockets, face tilted to the sky. The wind cut past them in a whistling chase, not yet a howl, soft rumble of thunder in a prelude to the storm. 

  


She’d slanted him a look, then, hazel eyes flashing through summer and autumn and streetlights in shadow, a million shades of coffee and gold. A splash of rain crossed the bridge of her nose. He felt as if he couldn’t breathe.  _ Hey _ .

  


(Hey Parker. Hey Loser. Hey, Spiderman!)

  


_ Hey _ .

  


_ Wanna make a run for it? _

  


The street opposite was empty, save the newspaper, soaked in pieces; blown away. The bandages over his side ached with something else altogether. He looks down. Concrete. Backpack straps. Converse, double laced; split at the ends. Looks up. Empty air, the rain a held breath, as if in expectation. Anticipation. Spiderman was tucked into his bag, folded back and peeled away behind tired eyes, shaking hands. There was no one to save; no one to see. 

  


All the same, there was a buzzing in his limbs he couldn’t define. And in the dark, in the damp, he closes his eyes with a deep breath, past his throat, pushed down to his lungs. Tugs his hood over his eyes; braces the flat of his foot on the glass. 

  


_ What, lose your nerve? _

  


Getting caught in the rain was one thing. 

  


Chasing it was another. 

  


Another what? Misfortune. Opportunity. Accident. Miracle. 

Parker luck, then; it was all four. He exhales, smiles, the crack of thunder like a shot.

  


_ Hey. Wanna make a run for it? _

**Author's Note:**

> you scrolled this far-- maybe leave some evidence of it?


End file.
